The past, the present, Plomet and Pélicot

A recent article in The Guardian, dealing with a current criminal case in France, happened to mention a piece of research I did some years ago. It is always interesting to see one’s work ‘out there’ in the world, having something of a life of its own and reaching a more general audience, and to take in, and react to, other people’s views of it. Given the particular context of the current case with which it has been linked, it would have been inappropriate to express immediate ‘delight’ on social media at having been noticed in this way, but setting out a few thoughts on the matter, in a blog post, seemed to be in order.

 

The research

The work referred to was published in an article in 2017 (Drugs, deceit and damage in thirteenth century Herefordshire: new perspectives on medieval surgery, sex and the law. Social History of Medicine, 30(2), 255-276). This was a discussion of a case I found in a thirteenth century legal record, the significance of which had previously been overlooked.

Briefly, when looking in two rolls of legal proceedings of a royal court sitting in  Herefordshire in 1292, I came across the case of Isabella Plomet and Ralph de Worgan. The records showed that Isabella had complained that she had sought Ralph’s medical help with a problem she had with her leg, and he had agreed to treat her, he had given her an anaesthetic draught, but then proceeded to force himself upon her, and ‘lay with her against her will’. They also made it clear that a jury (and an all-male jury at that) found in Isabella’s favour. Ralph was ordered to compensate her to the tune of one mark (thirteen shillings and four pence) and was also obliged to pay a fine to the king. Steps were taken to ensure that he left Isabella alone thereafter.

At the time I first came across Plomet, I was most struck by the ‘history of medicine’ aspect of the case: dwoledreng, the anaesthetic mentioned in the report was, intriguingly, in a different language from the rest of the report – an English word amidst the usual Latin. That switching of language said some interesting things about knowledge of drugs in medieval society, as well as sending me off to the literature on this particular concoction. That this aspect struck me as the most likely to be of interest to others can be seen from my choice to send my work on Plomet to a history of medicine journal. It has, however, probably attracted greater attention for the connections it seems to have had in people’s minds with the still-hugely-problematic area of rape law.

The case has become reasonably well-known amongst those who work on medieval women and gender, and naturally, since no historian is cut off from the concerns of the period in which she is living, people have thought about it in connection with those modern concerns. One leading scholar who has commented on it, both in her academic work and in her more public-facing writing, has been Professor Carissa Harris, a medieval literature specialist. As well as considering it in her work about literary portrayals of sexual misbehaviour, Harris linked it to discussion of another famous ‘drug-faciliatated rape’ case of a few years ago: that of Bill Cosby.

The context in which Isabella Plomet and her 1292 case have been raised recently is that of the Pélicot case. This is a (currently on-going) trial centring on the rape and sexual abuse of a woman, Giselle Pélicot. Over an extended period, by his own admission, her then-husband, Dominique Pélicot, raped her and invited other men to penetrate her when unconscious, after he had drugged her with Lorazepam. Most of the men in question pleaded not guilty to rape, though not in the sense that they alleged that Mme Pélicot consented to the penetration. Rather,  relying on the French penal code’s definition of rape, some of them argued (essentially) that they were not aware that the penetration was against her will, but thought that it was all part of a sex game in which she was, in some sense, a willing participant. The relevant French provision does not focus on the lack of consent as the core of the offence, but identifies penetration ‘by violence, constraint, threat or surprise’, as the requirements for a conviction. There has been the strong suggestion that it should be altered, to bring in absence of consent more explicitly, and the line of defence used in this case  has intensified discussion of the desirability of making this change.

There are some clear similarities between ‘my’  thirteenth century English case and this twenty-first century French one: use of drugs, sexual penetration without consent or against the will of the woman, deception/abuse of a position of trust. There are also differences. In terms of the factual elements of the cases, the ‘medical’ context in Plomet is absent from Pélicot and the spousal relationship at the centre of Pélicot is not present in Plomet; the multiple attacks in Pélicot  are not alleged in Plomet; the outcome in Plomet is financial, while that in Pélicot will be sentences of imprisonment for those who have pleaded guilty or been convicted.

It is the use of drugs to facilitate sexual penetration which is not wanted by the woman which is to the fore in Anna Moore’s Guardian article. This makes the point that there is a long history of such misconduct. One might make a closer link, and note the continuity in the misuse, more specifically, of ‘medical’ drugs (as opposed to alcohol or ‘recreational’ drugs) for this purpose. Lorazepam and dwoledreng could both be used for legitimate medical purposes, as well as the nefarious purposes to which they were put. Another interesting facet of the connection between the two lies in the way in which they show new scientific or technological developments paving the way for new techniques of victimisation. Ralph de Worgan used his privileged medical role and his knowledge of drugs, to get access to Isabella Plomet and rape her; Dominique Pélicot admitted to having used modern anti-anxiety medication and the internet to accomplish his ends.

Another point of connection may lie in the role of the complainant. Giselle Pélicot has received widespread praise for her unusual bravery, in speaking out on the crimes against her, and in waiving anonymity in the pursuit of justice for herself and the hope of improvement for others. Her image and character have become well-known. We cannot know anything like as much about Isabella Plomet, and how she ended up in court, complaining about her mistreatment, but, given contemporary gender ideas and the vanishingly small number of rape cases which did not end with abandonment or acquittal, this is likely to have taken considerable courage, and Isabella Plomet’s case was also unusual in the procedure used. Plomet was not a straightforward equivalent of a modern rape prosecution. The rough equivalent in the medieval period was an appeal of rape, i.e. an individually-brought prosecution. Isabella Plomet took a different approach, using the plaint procedure. We might see this as something a little more like a tort action than a criminal prosecution, though the comparison is not exact. What is important is that this would not result in such a serious penalty as was theoretically the expected outcome in an appeal of rape (capital punishment plus property forfeiture) but it was more flexible in terms of how the case could be put, and this was important in Isabella’s case. Her problem was that she had apparently gone along with some of Ralph’s treatment (going with him from Hereford to Ross on Wye, drinking the draught he provided her) which might well have meant that an appeal of rape would be unsuccessful. Using the plaint procedure meant that Isabella could express the wrong done to her in different terms to those required in an appeal. Discussions of the appeal of rape in medieval legal treatises suggest the need or expectation for a demonstration that the penetration was against the woman’s will, by means of exhibition of torn clothes and physical injury. While modern French law clearly does not require that, the Pélicot case is drawing attention to the particular problem of a legal definition of rape which arguably allows defendants to say that they thought it was acceptable to penetrate an unconscious woman without her clear consent.

In addition to greater freedom to formulate the accusation under the plaint procedure, it may well also have been the case that the prospect of some financial compensation from a successful plaint was rather more useful an outcome to Isabella Plomet than she would have found the execution of Ralph, in theory the outcome of an appeal of rape. The compensation she managed to secure (one mark) was not a mere token: the trusty time-travelling currency converter from the UK National Archives gives an indication of scale, suggesting that, in the 1290s, one mark was around the price of a cow, or 66 days’ wages for a skilled tradesman. That may well have been enough to make a difference to a survivor’s life and prospects (as well as hurting the convicted offender).

In years since I published my article, I have continued to think about the Plomet case, and have discussed it (with, I hope, all due caution and sensitivity) with my Legal History students. My thinking has often been aided or prompted by the ways in which others have regarded the case: as with all historical study, re-examination, addition, revision and nuancing is healthy and necessary. The latest use of the case, and the conversations I have had as a result, will no doubt inch my thinking on once more. I think that I will probably now always wonder whether Isabella Plomet had some character traits in common with Giselle Pélicot. That is, I think, a normal human reaction: our minds respond to striking stories with strong characters. At the same time, there may be a danger in concentrating too much on such exceptional cases. Isabella Plomet’s case stood out to me, and I highlighted it in my research, because it was so unusual. The Pelicot case has attracted widespread press attention because of its extreme and unusual facts. Both are fascinating, but neither should be pushed too far. It is attractive to see the exceptional ‘win’, to cheer at signs of special bravery, persistence or ingenuity on the part of those who have been subjected to sexual offences, to be heartened at demonstrations of solidarity with the victim as she puts herself through the ordeal of a court case. Nevertheless, it does need to be borne in mind that the vast majority of cases of sexual violence do not receive this level of interest or support, and that no legal system has yet been designed or operated so as to give justice in the less spectacular, less intellectually engaging, less potentially the subject of ‘REF-able’ articles, but vastly more numerous, body of rape cases which occur every and in every jurisdiction.

 

Gwen Seabourne

3/12/2024

 

Notes:

The Plomet entry can be seen here, courtesy of the peerless Anglo-American Legal Tradition website: (JUST 1/302 (Rex Roll) m. 76; JUST 1/303 (Berwick’s Roll) m. 75 is very similar).

For an English-language overview of the issue of consent in French rape law, see, e.g., S. Lannier, ‘Including or excluding consent to the French offence of rape: an analysis of the criminal literature’, Int J Semiot Law 37 (2024), 2465–2487.

 

 

The British Legal History Conference 2024: some reflections

The Law School and the Centre for Law and History Research hosted the 26th British Legal History Conference from 3rd to 6th July 2024. The conference organisers were Gwen Seabourne and Joanna McCunn. Read on to see some of their reflections on the experience.

GS: Now that we have had a bit of time to recover, and the dust has settled, it seems like a good chance to think about our time preparing for, and hosting, the BLHC. I came away feeling happy about it all, and glad that we did it. What about you?

JM: I’m really glad we did it too! There was definitely a lot of work involved behind the scenes – not just by us but by lots of our colleagues too. But it felt like it all paid off as soon as the conference delegates arrived and started enjoying the events we had planned for them. I was especially glad that we were able to show off some Bristolian highlights, even if the weather didn’t always co-operate…

GS: It felt to me like a good time to do this, both in personal terms, and also in terms of where legal history is as a discipline at the moment.

The personal aspect is that putting this thing on is an absolutely massive task. Fellow medieval legal historians (a really huge demographic …) will know what I mean when I say that hosting the BLHC is a little bit like having the general eyre visit your town (only without the hangings). The size of the undertaking means that, at earlier points in my career, when I ran the legal history unit at Bristol single-handed, and there were nothing like as many legal historians and legal history-friendly academics in the Law School as we now have, it would have been far too much to take on. Now, though, we are in a much stronger position, with several colleagues working in the area, our own research centre, and even a legal historian as Head of School. And, of course, it was great to do this with you. Thank goodness we get on well, trust each other’s instincts and were generally ‘on the same page’ in terms of what we wanted to do with the conference. Imagine if we’d had ‘artistic differences’ …!

JM: Haha, yes, I’m very glad that neither of us turned out to be a conference diva! And that we were able to keep a sense of humour about it all.

GS: The bigger picture, for me at least, was that legal history is in an interesting place generally. It is something that attracts scholars from a number of different academic backgrounds, and, although its ‘centre of gravity’ remains in law schools, it does feel as if it is opening up to, and welcoming the perspectives of, social and economic historians, literary scholars and others. I have always been keen on pushing the inter-disciplinary aspect of legal history, and this was a great chance to do that.

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A princess, a tower and storming the great citadel of legal history

 

 

In 1241, a woman of royal descent died in Bristol castle. She was Eleanor of Brittany, granddaughter of one king of England (Henry II), niece of two more (Richard ‘the Lionheart’ and ‘Bad’ King John), and first cousin of the man on the throne at that point (Henry III), not to mention daughter of a duke and duchess of Brittany. She had spent a lot of her last two decades in Bristol, a city on the rise, with an imposing castle, but Eleanor’s prolonged stay here was very much not her own choice.

 

She had been born between 1182 and 1184, and, with her pedigree, would have expected a big dynastic marriage, life at one of the great courts of Europe, a position of respect as wife and mother, frequent travel, extensive lands, and a life of some influence. None of this happened: she ended up a prisoner of the kings of England for much of her life, a situation which only ended with her death in captivity in Bristol.

 

Eleanor had not, as far as we know, committed any offence which might justify this unusual treatment, however: she was confined not for what she had done, but for who she was. After the death of her uncle Richard, it might have been argued that the right to the throne of John, and his line, was weaker than that of the children of his older brother, Eleanor’s dead father, Geoffrey. It was in the interests of John and his son Henry III to keep her unmarried and under control, and that is what they did.

 

Eleanor’s story may strike us as sad, or cruel. Or we may not be moved by her difficulties and disappointments, when we compare them to the sharper suffering of many of her contemporaries: she did, after all, have food to eat and clothes to wear, the occasional royal gift, and lived out a fairly long life. Whatever may be our emotional response, I think that Eleanor’s treatment tells us some important things about women, law and legal history.

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‘According to the laws of God and womanhood’: some reflections on medieval law and gender

(This post appeared on the University of Bristol Law School Blog in February 2024)

 

The common law of England, in the medieval centuries and long afterwards, was man-made law: created by and in the interests of free men, drawing on and reinforcing ideas of women as inferior. Its assumption of the superiority of men was intensified during marriage, with the wife’s identity defined in relation to her husband, her legal personality subordinated to his in important respects. Studying the documentation left behind by those making, administering and using the common law in medieval England provides ample confirmation of the disadvantages and limitations which were imposed upon women and the hierarchical nature of marriage. Amongst the many records which seem to show settled, hierarchical ideas, there are, however, occasional glimpses of subtler thinking and richer detail, serving both to nuance our view of medieval thinking about law and gender, and also to expand our understanding of the lives of medieval women, up to a point. Such glimpses can be found in the documentation relating to an episode in the later fifteenth century, and subsequent legal action, which I will note here.[i]

A northern English landowner, Sir John Assheton, alleged that, on a November night in 1470, a group of more than 200 ‘riottours’, headed by a certain John Myrfeld and Richard Ledys, attacked his manor of Howley (Morley, Yorkshire). They were, he said, brandishing a fearsome array of weapons, and they came with trumpets and horns blaring, damaging his property pulling walls down and deliberately setting fires, and causing considerable fear to his household, including his wife, her female companions and his servants. He himself had been taken away to nearby Pontefract Castle, and made to seal a bond for £1000 in their favour, obliging him to do what they wanted. He petitioned for the aid of king (Edward IV) and parliament, to ensure that he was able to take effective legal action against multiple miscreants.

So far, so stereotypically masculine: men and property; men and violence; men and their weapons; an exclusively male parliament and legal profession; a male monarch, a wife whose name is not thought worth noting. There are, however, valuable references to women, and hints about gender ideas, in the petition in which Assheton told this story, and in the wider body of documentation on the case.

In the petition, Assheton suggested that the attack was particularly serious because of its effect on his wife and the women attending her. His anonymous spouse had, he said, just had a baby, and was still ‘in child-bed’. She was very frightened by the attack, then and for a long time afterwards. Assheton did eventually say that he experienced ‘fere’ but only after he had attributed even stronger emotions to his ‘wif’, describing her as being ‘in right grete dispare of hir lif’, and noting that the ‘gentilwomen’ who were with his wife, shared her feelings.

In addition to the emotional impact on his wife, he also stressed the danger which would have been involved in moving her away from the scene of the attack: at that point just after her delivery: moving her would be a risk to her life (putting her in ‘ieop[ar]dy of hir deth’). The possibility of death in or after childbirth was much on the minds of medieval people, and the petition also alludes to one of the ways in which they might choose to improve the chances of a good outcome. Describing the situation of his wife, Assheton’s petition mentions that she was, at the time of the attack, lying ‘in the bandes (or, in one instance, ‘bondes’) of ‘Our Lady’. This important, and rather intimate, detail, referring to the Virgin Mary and the possibility of her assistance in childbirth, might conceivably be metaphorical, but I think that it is rather more concrete than that, and indicates the use of a particular supernaturally-charged device: the birth girdle. Such belts, or girdles, inscribed with prayers for the safety of the wearer, and sometimes invoking the aid of Mary, have aroused the interest of historians of medicine, religion and gender for some time, and a recent scientific study of one surviving girdle gave strong evidence of the fact that it was actually wrapped around the body of the woman during childbirth.[ii] This documentary evidence may extend understanding of the use of such objects a little, suggesting as it does that a woman might remain girdled for a time after the delivery, and also that the use of the girdle was sufficiently well-known to laymen to make it a useful ‘plot element’ in a non-specialist medical or religious narrative.

The other detail of the petition’s birth story which is worth emphasising is the surrounding of the labouring and newly-delivered wife by other women, confirming the idea of confinement as a period in which one would expect female-only company (unless there was some emergency).[iii] While male medical professionals were increasingly claiming gynaecology as part of their intellectual domain,[iv] this account reinforces the idea of childbirth usually being a women-only event.

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The Once and Future Bristol British Legal History Conference

If it has escaped anyone’s attention, the Bristol legal historians are gearing up to host the British Legal History Conference 2024 (3rd-6th July 2024, since you ask, and yes, booking is now open … ‘early bird’ rate available until 31st March …). It has been a long time since the BLHC came to these parts: the last time Bristol was the venue was July 1981.

Recidivist BLHC attendee and Welsh Legal History Society luminary, Richard Ireland, has kindly passed on the programme from that last Bristol BLHC, and a very interesting document it is too. So, what were the legal historians of 1981 up to, in that time of Mrs Thatcher in 10 Downing Street, the Specials topping the charts with ‘Ghost Town’ (so the internet informs me), and many people feverishly buying up Charles and Diana tea-towels …?

The cover shows us that the fifth BLHC was a joint effort between the Department of History and the (late) Faculty of Law. That, perhaps, brings up some interesting thoughts about the relationship between the two main disciplinary bases for legal historians, which we might well reflect upon when we meet in July. The imperfect appearance of the text, typewritten and photocopied, may mist the eyes of some who remember the pre-computerised world. (Those marks on the left hand side are staples, future legal historians and BLHC attendees of many years hence – a primitive method of attaching together hard copies of information, on the now-obsolete medium known as ‘paper’. Yes, the past is a very foreign country.)

 

 

 

 

The first page gives us a little history of the conference, and the names of the Continuation Committee (conference ‘regulars’ may recognise one or two familiar names here) and the Bristol convenors of the time.  The gender balance in the committee and the use of ‘Miss’ and ‘Mrs’ for female academics may be noted.

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Inside the British Legal History Conference 2024: the organisers in conversation

Corn Exchange Clock, Bristol.

 

In July 2024, the University of Bristol Law School and the Centre for Law and History Research will welcome legal historians from the UK and the world, as Bristol hosts the 26th British Legal History Conference. This is a major gathering of those working on histories of law, held every two years at a different UK university, and returning to Bristol for the first time since the early 1980s. The academic organisers are Gwen Seabourne and Joanna McCunn, and here they are, ‘in conversation, to share a few thoughts on the conference. 

GS: Well, less than a year to go (see clock above for clunky visual allusion to passing of time): a little bit scary, but we have made quite a lot of arrangements already. I am especially pleased with the conference theme. Will you tell the nice people on the internet about it, Joanna – what it is, and what sorts of things we hope to hear about? 

JM: Yes – it’s all very exciting! Our theme is ‘Insiders and Outsiders in the History of Law’, which was really inspired by the legal history of Bristol itself. Bristol has been a significant gathering place for legal ‘insiders’, like lawyers and merchants, for centuries, but it’s also been an important site for legal ‘outsiders’, who have been involved in protesting, reforming or resisting the law.

We’re hoping to bring these two sides of Bristol’s history together, and to hear about powerful legal actors as well as those who have been marginalised by the law: enslaved people, women, LGBTQ+ people and so on. We’re also interested in how the law draws dividing lines more broadly, and in whether there might be ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’ in the study of legal history itself.

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Goose Thievery and the Threat of Australia: Insights into Local Community Life Provided by 18th and 19th Century Criminal Trials at the Old Bailey.

[GS: I am very pleased to include this blog post from Matthew Parish, one of our former legal history students. Matthew is currently completing his LL.M. at the University of Bristol, having graduated from the LL.B. last year. His interest in legal history was sparked by the legal history unit, and, in his own words, he was ‘hooked by tales of goose thievery, witch trials, and clandestine marriages, and became increasingly aware of the historical contingency of contemporary law and the importance of understanding the social, cultural, and intellectual forces that shaped it’. After the LL.M., he is off to work at the Law Commission as a Research Assistant for 2023/24 – and then hopes to return to academia and undertake a PhD, pursuing his passion for all things legal history. Many thanks for this, Matthew, and now, on with those geese …]

 

Awaking early on the morning of the 8th of September 1866, Thomas Clark, a farmer of Lewisham Village, opened his stable doors and witnessed a scene that horrified him. The stable, which had just the night before been alive with much squawking, clucking, and avian merriment, now lay silent. His 14 geese had vanished! Later that same day, in the Earl Grey pub of Lewisham Village, 3 men happened to be selling geese. “Six for a sovereign”, they cried. Evidently hungrier than James Ware – the other bystander present to the tantalising offer (who had decided to reject the bargain) – Fredrick Haynes accepted and paid 3s for a goose. Fortunately, this is not the opening to Sherlock Holmes’s shortest and dullest adventure. Instead, it is a criminal case, held at the Old Bailey on the 22nd of October 1866.  Indeed, the mind of a great detective was not required. Local policeman John Moore possessed facilities enough to link the disappearance of geese from a local farm in the morning, to the sale of geese in the local pub in the evening. Guilty verdicts for animal theft were secured for 2 of the 3 men.

What to 21st-century readers may seem to be the least cunning criminal plot imaginable may provide historical insight into 19th-century England. If nothing else, the case of the 14 missing geese highlights the centrality of the local village community to 19th-century life. John Hibbert, one of the convicted goose thieves, was well known within the community, and, according to a local villager, regularly demonstrated his hard-working character in the neighbourhood. Thus, the entire scope of the crime was within the boundaries of a small community; the geese were stolen by local men from a local farm and sold at the local pub. One explanation for such a locally situated and blatant crime may be the weak intellectual prowess of the thieves. Alternatively, and perhaps cumulatively with the former explanation, the locality of the crime may indicate the centrality of the local community to the lives of those living within it, with individuals unable to conceptualise, and unwilling to pursue, a broader world of criminal and non-criminal enterprise beyond the narrow boundaries of their community.

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‘The Law bookes are so huge, & large’: advice for early modern law students

Court of King’s Bench, c. 1460. The small figures on the left are (more or less cheerful) law students. Image copyright © Inner Temple Library

New law students often experience academic culture shock. As Russell Sandberg writes, ‘Law Schools are strange places’, where students are expected to solve unusual problems, use a unique set of sources, and employ distinctive methods. They are asked to ‘think like lawyers’, even when these new ways of thinking are ‘at odds with what law students have previously experienced’. Happily, help is close at hand: there is no shortage of books written by distinguished lawyers who are anxious to explain to new law students what the law is and how they should approach its study.

Law students’ culture shock is not a uniquely modern phenomenon, and nor is experienced lawyers’ instinct to offer well-meaning advice. Early modern law students had plenty of complaints as they began their studies at the Inns of Court. They were not offered official reading lists or introductory courses: instead, they were expected to read their way through the case law by themselves. Many students were shocked by the heavy workload and lack of clear direction. Henry Spelman described his work as ’a mass which was not only large, but which was to be continually borne on the shoulders’, while Abraham Fraunce complained that ‘the study of the Law’ was ‘hard, harsh, unpleasant, unsavory, rude and barbarous’.

Lawyers soon began to publish books of advice to help these struggling law students. Some instructed students on how they should spend their time. In 1663, for example, Edward Waterhouse recommended the following (rather varied) timetable to law students: 5-6am was for reading the Bible and praying; 6-9am was for reading law; 9-11am for fencing and dancing; 11am-12 noon for learning logic and rhetoric; 12-2pm for eating; 2-5pm for visiting friends; 5-6pm for reading poetry; 6-8pm for eating again; and 8-9pm for praying before bed.

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‘Escapades’ and Labour: Chaucer, Chaumpaigne and Legal History

Wills Memorial Building, Bristol, which may or may not be the location of our conference ... oh go on University of Bristol, be fair ...

In the first half of this academic year, a lot of interest was generated by discussion of newly-discovered documentary evidence relating to the life of medieval English poet and author, Geoffrey Chaucer. This was explored in a special edition of a literary journal, The Chaucer Review. Something new about Chaucer was of great interest to scholars of medieval literature, of course, but the subject-matter of the new evidence also drew in a wider audience, since it dealt with an episode in Chaucer’s life which was not primarily connected to his writing: an apparent accusation of rape. As somebody who has taken an interest in the issue of rape and sexual misconduct in medieval common law, I was keen to see the new evidence, and to think through its implications for Legal History, as well as the possible contributions which a legal historian could make to scholarship here. This post sets out some preliminary thoughts.

First of all, let me give a quick outline of the ‘Chaucer/Chaumpaigne episode’, for those who are not familiar with this, or with the heated debates which have surrounded it. In the 1870s, Frederick Furnivall, a Chaucer scholar, turned up a record from 1380 which seemed to suggest that Chaucer had been accused of rape by a woman called Cecily Chaumpaigne. This record was the release of Chaucer, by Chaumpaigne, from all proceedings de raptu meo, a Latin phrase which may – or may not – be translated ‘relating to my rape’. This led to much discussion, as to whether Chaucer should or should not be regarded as potentially having been a rapist, and to a number of literary scholars engaging with the issue of just what raptus meant in this context. Different views were possible, since the word was used to cover not only what we now understand ‘rape’ to include, but also other offences focusing on abduction or removal (often called ‘ravishment’) rather than sexual violation. Further connected material was found in the 1990s, stoking the fires of debate once again, and then we had the find in very recent times, which was ‘launched’ in late 2022.

The new material showed that Chaucer and Chaumpaigne had been on the same side in other legal action not long before the ‘Chaumpaigne release’, when they were defendants in an action relating to employment. A certain Thomas Staundon proceeded against both of them for an offence under the Ordinance and Statute of Labourers (1349 and 1351). The nub of the case was that Chaumpaigne was, and should, by law, have remained in, the employment of Staundon until the end of her contract, but had (by some means) moved from that employment to work for Chaucer. The word raptus could have been used here, whether the leaving of Staundon was in accordance with Cecily’s will, or against it. The reasonable deduction from the new material is that the ‘Chaumpaigne release’ was part of this ‘labourers’ case concerning  the removal of a contracted worker from the employer to whom she was bound.

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Subject to Time

 

The law has a long memory – forget elephants, it looks far beyond any ordinary mortal span. Technically speaking, its memory kicks in on 3 September 1189.[i] But even the best memories suffer from deterioration. With such a lengthy span to cover, it is an inevitable commonplace of legal history that facts become lost. Records of rules or events might never be made. Or, if records are made, these might not survive or survive only partially. Those versed in the law also pass on, and might be replaced by others who sing the verses rather differently.

Sometimes, though, knowledge can be lost surprisingly quickly, without any of the standard traumas of intervening centuries. And this sort of loss can occur even in the modern context.

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